


castle of cards

by simplydrasticvoldy



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxious Katsuki Yuuri, Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fights, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries, Miscommunication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 03:36:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15940973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplydrasticvoldy/pseuds/simplydrasticvoldy
Summary: “Can you pass the salt, please?”Something tightens inside Yuuri’s chest and settles like a rock. “What are you reading?” he asks hurriedly, wanting to sound curious. He would’ve smiled too, but that would’ve looked cartoonish in this situation."Lincoln in the Bardo."Victor answers as much was asked, nothing about the story, or the author, or something he might've found funny. Yuuri doesn’t try again, his throat closing up so fast he barely knows how to push his breakfast through. He just wants to get this over with and go to the rink; then maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to breathe again.A week ago, they had a fight.---In which they have an argument, a surge of mental breakdowns, miscommunication and emotional constipation follows, but their relationship only grows stronger out of it.





	castle of cards

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: slight mentions of blood, nothing graphic

“Can you pass the salt, please?”  

Yuuri almost jumps at the sound of his voice. It's been a good twenty-minutes since Victor spoke. He looks across the table – Victor seems really engrossed in his Kindle, his free hand fiddling with his scrambled eggs. Yuuri passes the salt, quietly, awkwardly; Victor picks it up without acknowledgement.  

Something tightens inside Yuuri’s chest and settles like a rock. “What are you reading?” he asks hurriedly, wanting to sound curious. He would’ve smiled too, but that would’ve looked cartoonish in this situation.  

“ _Lincoln in the Bardo_.”   

Victor answers as much was asked, nothing about the story, or the author, or something he might've found funny. Yuuri doesn’t try again, his throat closing up so fast he barely knows how to push his breakfast through. He just wants to get this over with and go to the rink; then maybe, just  _maybe_ , he’d be able to breathe again.   

A week ago, they had a fight.  

Ever since then, things have been like this. Every word sounds hollow in this house, and sharp, like glass shattering on a cold hard floor. They didn’t talk at all in the first two days and Yuuri turned his back on him and cried himself to sleep. The third day they needed to go back to training. Yuuri was glad; even though they didn’t resolve the burning subject he thought they’d at least move on. After all, there’s so much a coach and trainee can do without communicating. Yuuri knows Victor hates (his) avoidance tactics, so they’d probably be forced to discuss it sooner or later. Maybe when they take out Makkachin for a walk, or maybe in bed.   

Instead, Victor resorted to the worst thing he could do to Yuuri’s heart. He closed off completely; it’s almost as if he became a different person. He became the person that offered Yuuri a commemorative photograph at the Sochi Grand Prix finals. He'd correct Yuuri’s free leg but he won’t touch him, won’t tackle-hug him, won’t look at him  _the way he does_ , won’t smile at him  _the way he does._   

At first Yuuri was angry, then desperate, and now scared.  _What if this is it_?  His mind won’t stop telling him. He feels traitorous tears in his eyes; he cannot let them fall – he cannot let others see – so he turns his back and chugs all the water in the bottle at one go.   

When he’s trained for the day he watches Victor skate straight over to Yakov, already exhausted, and get scolded by the old man. It's almost unfair, and when Yuuri is not constantly obsessing over the fight he thinks how lucky he is to have Victor as his coach. Then he looks and looks, and Victor never looks back, and it hurts again. He packs up his things and leaves for home without a word.  

When he gets home, he throws his bag over on the couch. Tears prick his eyes again and his anxiety treads into the territory of the irrational: he almost suspects if Makkachin's acting distant as well, if no one loves him anymore, if his chest will simply constrict to a point that he suffocates to death in his sleep.  

He drags himself to the kitchen to prepare dinner. Victor's going to be late, he guesses; his choreography's lagging behind schedule and Yakov is giving him a tough time lately. Then Yuuri remembers today morning and his mind wavers from empathy to anger and desperation again. He doesn’t feel like eating, even the water tastes rancid. He prepares dinner for one, sets it on the table, covers it with a cloche. Then leaves for bed on an empty stomach.  

He stares into the hazy ceiling, and sinks into the memory of their last kiss over the kitchen counter. It was a week ago, warm, and funny, really; there was foam on the tip of Victor’s nose and he nuzzled it against Yuuri’s cheek...  

It doesn't take long for the exhaustion to take over.  

 

* * *

 

“Focus, Vitya.” 

Victor stalls to a halt at his coach’s call, panting for breath. “I was doing fine,” he grits his teeth. He's annoyed at Yakov, he’s annoyed at the world, he’s annoyed at everything. 

“Nonsense,” Yakov chastises him, before mercilessly picking apart his progress, “You’re making too many mistakes. Your lutz is sloppy. It’s like you’re learning to skate again!” 

Victor sighs; he has known Yakov since he first stepped on the ice  - needlessly grueling his students is one way to inspire them to do better. Usually, Victor would take it with a smile, but he’s too emotionally exhausted right now. “Yakov, look –” 

“Your choreography is falling apart and you don’t even have a  _theme_  yet –” 

“I  _am_  thinking –” 

“Then think faster! You don’t have all year! You're riding high on your reputation, aren’t you, you’re thinking you’ll slink past everyone in the last hour. For once, Vitya, get down your high horse. Look at your competition. It's been a year. Things have changed...” 

After a while Yakov’s blaring lecture mutes into thin air and Victor sneaks a glance behind him, trying to locate Yuuri. He isn’t anywhere. He probably left for home. Yuuri left for home without even  _telling_  him. 

“... it’s all my fault, shouldn’t have let you go on this silly coaching-and-competing  _stint_  in the first place –” 

This one stings, and this isn’t the first time Yakov brought it up. Victor narrows his eyes at the old man, dry anger bubbling in his chest. “You don’t make decisions for me,” he tells him, an icy calmness in his voice, “I’ll have the full choreography  _and_  the theme by Monday. If I fail, I'll withdraw my name from the Nationals.” 

The ultimatum brings the exact opposite effect; Yakov looks proud rather than threatened, and Victor begins his training again, trying not to think of Yuuri. They had a small fight a week ago – about the very same thing, which escalated to a point that Yuuri literally  _echoed_  Yakov’s words. Victor had snapped for the moment. Before he realised Yuuri always has these intrusive thoughts and doubts – and that they are not often rational and he can’t help it – the damage was done. Yuuri stopped talking to him altogether. Days later, he’d only talk when  _needed_ , he’d do his own chores without a word, he’d quietly train in his corner. At first, Victor was angry, now he’s just hurt.  

He thought he’d allow Yuuri to cool off on his own. But Victor’s only human, it’s not fair to expect him to be the one to understand _everything_  every time – it’s just not fair. He too reacted out of anger; he became petty, distant, cold. But he’s tired now – there's nothing he wants as bad as to hug his fiancé. He'd apologise too if he needs to. 

The apartment is dark when he unlocks the door. Yuuri is sleeping in the bedroom, Makkachin too. There’s food on the table. He takes a shower and puts the food in the microwave. He notices an empty sink; Yuuri must’ve washed his own plate. It hurts because washing the dishes is Victor’s part of the chores. He's hurt and confused; he doesn’t understand why Yuuri would be so passive-aggressive. He senses that dry anger again; suddenly he feels justified about being petty in the morning, with the book and all.  

His anger dissipates as soon as he enters the bedroom. Yuuri looks so peaceful, so innocent; Victor watches his chest rise and fall, there’s something comforting about it. He puts a light kiss on Yuuri’s forehead and takes the other side of the bed. They need to talk, but how shall they talk if Yuuri doesn’t so much as  _look_  at him?  

What  _exactly_  is Yuuri thinking? Sometimes he’s just afraid to guess. Yuuri’s the one who dropped a bomb on him the night before the free skate in Barcelona. He's the one who said he’d leave the ice (and Victor), right when Victor believed he’s having the time of his life. Right when he received his ring, his everything.  

He falls asleep looking at it.   

 

* * *

 

Victor sleeps longer on the usual off days. He wakes up to the sunlight peeping through the blinds of the window, then checks the clock – it’s barely 6 a.m – then slumps back into the pillow. He flaps his hand sideways – still drowsy, unthinking – and jumps with a start when he finds the sheets ruffled and empty. A pang of dread shoots straight through his heart; Yuuri is never up  _this_  early. Where is he?  

Hurtling out of the bed, he glances around the bedroom – the balcony is unoccupied, the bathroom door is ajar –  _where is he –_ he runs into the living room, knocking over the laundry basket –  _where is –phew, there he is_  – before he finds Yuuri at the kitchen counter slicing fruits for breakfast, Makkachin whining at his legs. Yuuri turns to look at the commotion Victor just created, but doesn’t comment – uncharacteristically, yet again – and the world returns to the stasis it was in since last week. 

He then finds Yuuri gazing at him, soft yearning in his eyes.  _That's it,_  Victor can’t take it anymore, no fight is worth this –   

“Ugh,” Yuuri cries out in pain suddenly, clasping his left hand. The knife he was holding clatters to the floor. Victor runs to Yuuri across the counter before he could realise, pulling Yuuri’s injured hand free from his death grasp. Yuuri resists at first, but doesn’t stand a chance against Victor’s resolve, not this time. He eventually relents, and Victor is horrified to find it freely bleeding. 

“I’ll get the first-aid kit,” he jumps into action. It was right there, in the second drawer of the cabinet to the left of the dining table, and when he returns he sees Yuuri sunken on his knees on the floor, simply watching the blood drip from his hand. Victor sits beside him, swabbing the wound clean. 

“You are so careless,” Victor scolds him breathlessly, worriedly, his heart still pounding looking at all the blood. There is a clean gash from his thumb to the wrist, “This will probably need stitches.” Victor waits for a response, but there is none. “What, you’re not gonna say anything?” Victor snaps, barely managing to keep his emotions under check, “Isn’t there gonna be any  _Victor I’m okay, Victor you’re fussing too much this will heal on its own_? Yuuri?” 

“You are talking to me.” 

Yuuri's words catch him off-guard. “What?”  

Yuuri looks at him with the same yearning look again; Victor’s heart drops. Then Yuuri cries, tears dribbling from his eyes onto his glasses, and Victor panics. It's the worst, most heart wrenching thing – he’d rather walk barefoot on razor blades than see his Yuuri cry –  

He takes a break from bandaging his hand and holds him instead. “Yuuri, Yuuri, honey, what’s wrong _zolotse_  please tell me, please don’t cry,” he strokes his hair, trying to comfort him but it just makes Yuuri cry harder, and Victor doesn’t know what to do. 

“You weren’t talking to me,” he says, his voice coming in soft, body wracking sobs, “You weren’t t-talking and I thought... I thought you won’t ever talk to me again.” 

It sounds so ridiculous at first that Victor does a double-take. Why would Yuuri even think –  _oh_ , it strikes him, and he wants to hit himself – he let those dark thoughts crowd in Yuuri’s head with his cold, ambiguous behaviour. He made Yuuri cry. “God,  _god,_ Yuuri, I’m  _so_ _sorry,_  I didn’t realise – this is inexcusable, please forgive me –” 

“It’s n-not your fault,” Yuuri shakes his head, trying to subside his sobs, trying to breathe, “I was the one who overreacted. That day, I shouldn’t have left the house like that. I just couldn't... I was too proud to say I’m sorry. I'm so sorry, Victor.” 

“No, you were right,” he sighs, thinking back in time while he tends to Yuuri’s hand again, “I  _am_  in a lot of pressure. I was not prioritizing my own routine. I guess I didn’t want to accept it. When it came from you, it sounded  _too real_." 

"I'm so sorry, Vitya. I'm just... I shouldn't have been so insensitive," Yuuri whispers, his head resting on Victor's shoulder. Being insensitive is the last thing Yuuri should apologise for, and Victor wants to bleakly laugh at the irony of the situation.   

"Breathe,  _solnyshko_ ," Victor strokes his back in gentle circles, "Breathe. Slowly. In and out." 

"Please don't stop talking to me again."  

" _Never_ ," Victor vows, feeling a blob of emotion in his throat, "I'll never do that again. I'll talk to you all the time. I'll even talk in my sleep. From this point on, I'll never stop talking." Yuuri lets out a little laugh at that, and Victor heaves a small sigh of relief. "Anything for you, love." 

"I take it back, I need my sleep," Yuuri smiles. His nose is red and swollen, he looks like he hasn’t slept for the entirety of the week, and yet his eyes are bright, and his tired tear-stained smile can light up Victor’s whole world. It wasn’t until Victor saw it that he realised how much he longed to see it. 

“You’re crying,” Yuuri observes, reaching out to wipe his tears with his good hand. Victor touches his own face; he didn’t even realise when the tears spilled. 

“I was scared in the morning,” he confesses; it’s silly and he doesn’t want to look Yuuri in the eye, so he pulls him closer and buries his own face in the crook of Yuuri’s neck, “I knew you were mad at me, and when I woke up the bed was empty and I thought you... left.” 

“I would never do that,” Yuuri seems aghast at the very idea of it, “Vitya, I would never.”  

“I know I just... I just lost reason for a moment,” he mumbles, slightly embarrassed, still not looking up, “I know how hard it must’ve been for you settling in a new country – and you don’t even know Russian – you did it all for me and I behaved like  _that,_ I just hate myself so much right now.”  

“Hey, I was petty too,” Yuuri replies almost jokingly, trying to lighten the situation, “I would never want you to coddle me. But Vitya, listen. No matter how long our fight continued and no matter what my... mind told me, I know I love you and you love me. I won’t leave. I'll cling to that hideous railing of the balcony –”  

“– It’s not  _that_  hideous –”  

“– so hard that no force on earth would be able to pull us apart.”  

“Us?”  

“Yeah, me and the railing.”  

“ _Yuuuuri_ ,” Victor pouts, then whines, then kisses him on the mouth, “So mean. I love you  _so_  much. Your hand though, we have to go to the ER. I'll get our jackets.”  

Yuuri glances down at his bandaged hand and hesitates. “I don’t think it needs a visit. It's not even bleeding anymore, Vitya.”  

Victor renders him a bored stare. “Are you trying to pick a fight again, mister?” Yuuri raises his hands in surrender, almost comically, and gets up from the floor, throwing a mop over the patch of blood on the tiles. “After we’re done at the doctor’s, how about we go on a breakfast date? The restaurant two blocks away has the best sandwiches.”  

“Sounds great to me,” Yuuri says enthusiastically, carefully pushing his injured hand through the sleeve of his jacket. "I'm so hungry right now I can eat off the floor. Didn't have dinner last night."

Victor stares. _Of course_. And the things he assumed instead.

"Is something wrong?" Yuuri blinks back innocuously. Victor shakes his head, sighing, and reaches out to adjust Yuuri’s hat, “It’s pretty cold outside, maybe you should take the scarf as well.”  

He looks around in the wardrobe for his favourite blue one, and finds it squished under the dump of recently-laundered-but-not-ironed clothes. When he turns, he finds Yuuri teary-eyed again. “I missed  _this_ ,” Yuuri tells him, and Victor’s heart finally bursts.  

He hugs Yuuri like he'd never let go again. For all he knows, he might not.

“Me too. You know, next time we fight, just turn the house upside-down. Or banish me to the couch. Or take away my Makkachin rights.” 

Yuuri laughs, “How about we don’t fight ever again?”  

“We’ll call that plan B.” 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I'm just writing some canon compliant stuff because I wanted to get back my love for writing after the long break I took from writing my other fics. Anyway, tbh I just wanted to write hella angst. I also didn't write the fight itself because I wanted to focus on the aftermath, and I also wanted to do this little experiment and see how the fic turns out if I leave the who-said-what to the reader's imagination.
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
> (pssst... I love comments :3)


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